sordid business, disturbing Bolt Taylor's peace.
It was better to go quietly.

* * * * *

The sky was full of stars as Pete went homeward. The stars were big and
round; the forest in an ecstasy kept vigil all alert, all silent, and
the little streams of the thaw were saying their prayers before the
frost sleep of the later hours. The man was at peace. It is not so very
much to be cargador; but it is a very big thing indeed to be unselfish.
The trees kept vigil, the little streams crooned sleepy prayers, the
stars in glory humbly served as lamps, and the man made no cry in his
pain. Far down in the valley he saw a red flame rise.

* * * * *

Mother saw Brooke ride off to inspect his Star mules in their pasture
far away down the Fraser Canyon. She blacked the stove with malice, she
shook the bedding in enmity, set the furniture to rights as though it
were being punished, then sat on the damp floor brooding, while twilight
deepened over a world of treachery. Brooke was a thief, the lying boss
had used Pete and thrown him away wrung dry. And Pete was an old fool
who would forgive.

She had dreaded the lonely summer when she was left with only squirrels
for company. Now Pete would be "settin'" around, ruined, and out of
work, the man who had been used and thrown aside, the laughing-stock of
the teamsters who saw his pride brought low.

Cold and hot by turns, mother made herself tidy against Pete's return,
got the supper ready, and sat watching the door-step. She smoked his
spare corn-cob pipe devising vengeance, while the night closed over her
head.

The frontier breeds fierce women, with narrow venomous enmities toward
the foes of the house. Even if Pete suffered, Brooke should not prosper,
or the boss who had failed her man. Mother dragged two five-gallon cans
of petroleum from the lean-to, and staggering under their weight, poured
the oil over all Brooke's harness. Breathing heavily with her labor, she
carried loads of swampy hay, and cord-wood, until the _aparejos_ were
but part of a bonfire. Then with a brand from the stove she set the hay
alight. There should be no public shame to break Pete's heart, there
should be no pack-train unless he were cargador.

Pete stood beside the ashes, searching mother's face with his slow
brooding eyes. Her burning rage was gone, and she was afraid, for now
she thought too late of all his loving pride in the work, t